Ah, well, it’s been a month or two, and we are finally home—recovering from the haze of holiday travel and reclaiming our house from the plants and cats, who ran wild while we were gone. I transformed my desk into a staging area for the plants that would need to be watered most in our absence; I’ve only just removed the last geranium and swept away the dirt and dried-up petals. It seems like quite a metaphor for trying to get back to work—though strangely, overwhelmingly literal. Kind of like this:
The bookends of our holiday travel—Ricky’s hometown, famous for The Real Housewives of NJ—and the trailer, one of my ancestral homes. It was quite a leap: from snow and Broadway and Garden State Plaza; diner pancakes, endless traffic jams, and a Japanese grocery store (I think I accidentally ate some fish)—to sand roads, key lime pie, spanish moss, orange trees on the canals, manatees, and the $3 pair of sparkly blue flip flops I had to buy in order to supplement my travel wardrobe.
It’s good to be home. There are currently very few picturesque corners in our house; we’re digging out from under piles of geranium leaves, unwanted catalogs, and dirty laundry. Sometimes having so much space just seems unwieldy—though, of course, smaller spaces (as in the trailer) have their own limitations.